


A Perpetually Unfolding Miracle

by panzy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Slice of Life, mostly just harry reflecting on his birthday and his parents and the life he built
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panzy/pseuds/panzy
Summary: Harry turns twenty-two, older than his parents ever got to be, in the backyard of Grimmauld Place, surrounded by smiling, round faces he never thought he’d get to see this old.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, if you squint
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	A Perpetually Unfolding Miracle

Harry turns twenty-two, older than his parents ever got to be, in the backyard of Grimmauld Place, surrounded by smiling, round faces he never thought he’d get to see this old. 

Hermione has strung up lights along the crabapple trees and they glow softly, giving everything a hazy halo. It’s warm, warm enough that they haven’t had to go in yet despite the setting sun. They have ordered a ton of food and alcohol, mostly wine, so everyone is full and loose, milling around and striking up conversation with whomever they bump into. 

It had been Ron’s idea, actually, two summers after the end of the war, to start doing these big get-togethers around Harry’s birthdays. He had given a lot of excuses about needing a good reason to get everyone together, and the weather always being good around that time, but Harry knows that Ron remembers what Harry’s birthdays had been like, when they were children. He’s grateful. He’s been learning to accept gifts where they come. He’s getting better at it. 

They’ve become a bit of a yearly thing, and now sometimes more than that if they can find a good enough excuse. The crowd has gotten bigger every year - the regular gathering of Gryffindors and a few odd Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, has started to look a lot more colorful, and even gotten a little green around the edges. He looks over to where Pansy Parkinson, Neville Longbottom, and Angelina Johnson are in deep conversation over a quickly diminishing bottle of rosé and feels a wild urge to laugh. If his sixteen-year-old self could see them now. 

Grimmauld Place has also changed dramatically. He, Hermione, and Ron have been living here now almost four years, and it is now a favorite gathering place of their friends, or even a place to crash for a few weeks. It had been convenient for Hermione when she was going to uni and Ron for work, and Harry would’ve been happy anywhere that wasn’t Little Whinging, so it made sense. They’ve never had any real reason to leave, and it’s bright now, in a way that it hadn’t been for so long. Harry doesn’t know if Sirius would’ve preferred that he’d knocked it down or torched it or sold it, taken the money and run, but he doesn’t wonder so much, these days. He thinks that if Sirius could see it now, filled up with people, people who love Harry, he would’ve seen it differently. It doesn't escape Harry, how lucky he is. Most days, this life doesn't feel anything short of a miracle. 

“Have you had the samosa?” asks Hermione, from where she’s appeared at his elbow. She frowns up at him. “The man at the restaurant said they were very spicy, but honestly I think he was having me on, they don’t taste like anything to me.” 

He shakes his head and raises his glass to his lips, still staring off into the distance. Hermione finds the target of his gaze and rolls her eyes.

“It’s a good thing Neville’s over there, or those two will break another table, you know how they are,” she says, and he huffs out a laugh because, yeah, he does know how they are. “Though with how he’s been drinking, he won’t be much better. They just never know when to quit, do they? See, they’re already getting Pansy so riled up.”

She gestures over to them. As if on cue, Pansy squawks loudly, causing multiple people in their vicinity to turn around and stare. Neville and Angelina both throw their heads back, roaring with laughter. Harry grins, turning to Hermione.

“Wish I could tell that to you in 5th year,” he tells her. “That you’d be standing in your backyard, defending Pansy Parkinson’s honor.”

She whacks him lightly on the arm, smiling. Then she sighs.

“God, can you imagine?” She gazes back out into the yard, wearing the face she wears when she’s thinking about something complicated. “I think I’d’ve thought you were mad. Sometimes I think we are.”

Sometimes Harry is bowled over by the weight of Hermione’s forgiveness of the Slytherins. He knows it was harder for her than for him, or Ron, and for good reason. They might have made his life hell for a while, but he wasn’t the target of hissed slurs for seven years, and worse. On her right arm, the scar that Bellatrix gave her still stands white and raised against her dark skin. When they first all started spending time together, there were a few times where she disappeared for an hour or two with Pansy or Malfoy or even Blaise, once, and when they reemerged it was obvious they’d been through ringer, exhausted and cried out. Harry thinks Hermione might be stronger than all of them put together. 

He reaches out and squeezes her hand. She turns to him, surprised but smiling, and squeezes it back. 

“You know,” Harry says, after a moment. “I keep thinking about my parents today.”

Hermione nods. “Me, too.” 

He turns to her, surprised. “Yeah?” She nods, and pauses, clearly waiting for him to continue. 

“I just.” He runs a hand through his hair, which has not gotten neater. “They were twenty-one when they died. That used to seem so adult to me, and the way people talked about them - I always sort of imagine them, even with the pictures, sort of like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s age. But they weren’t, at all. I’m twenty-two, and, I think I’m probably an old twenty-two, and I don’t feel old at all. But I’m older than they ever were.”

He looks over at Hermione and is startled to see that her eyes are sparkling with tears. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” She flaps her hand at him.

“No, god, don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “I’m being silly. Or I’m not. But they deserve to be talked about. You deserve to talk about them.”

Harry shifts, a little uncomfortably. He knows she’s right, it’s just that sometimes, he forgets.

“You two doing alright?” Ron says, from behind them. He is holding a drink for Hermione, which she accepts, and uses as an excuse to wipe her eyes. Ron turns to Harry, his concern apparent. Harry shrugs.

“We were talking about Harry’s parents,” Hermione tells Ron, a little wetly, and he nods, understanding blooming across his well freckled face. He’s been getting a lot of sun these days. 

“By all means,” he says. “Carry on.”

“Just, you know, the tragedy of a youthful death,” Harry says drily. “Etcetera, etcetera.” Ron turns up the corner of his mouth appreciatively, but his eyes are searching, speculative.

“They were twenty-one, right?” Harry nods, and Ron lets out a low whistle. 

“That’s fucked,” he says, putting his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “That’s really fucked. Sorry. It must feel weird.”

“It does,” Harry says, because it’s true.

“I think they would’ve been really proud, Harry,” Hermione says, in a small voice. “I think they would’ve been really glad to see you get this old, after everything.”

“We can’t really—” Harry starts, but Ron shoves him good naturedly with his shoulder.

“Oh, come on, mate,” he says. “We might not be able to know much, but I think we can pretty much bank on that one.”

Harry nods, conceding. Somewhere in the crowd, people burst into laughter, and the sound carries over to them, softened by the breeze.

“You know who would’ve really liked this,” Ron says, with a rueful smile. “Sirius.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “I think so, too.” For a moment, they just stand there and soak it in. In a different world, Harry imagines idly, James Potter and Lily Evans stand in this spot, hand in hand, swaying to the music and laughing as Sirius Black holds Peter Pettigrew in a playful headlock, while Remus Lupin tries to and fails to look disapproving about it. In this one, Hannah Abbott and Dean Thomas cheer as Gregory Goyle beats Seamus Finnigan in arm wrestling, knocking over a bowl of salsa in the process. It’s certainly not nothing. 

“Oh, don’t look now,” Ron says, suddenly. “Malfoy’s here. Ginny and Luna have got him cornered by the punch.”

“Ugh, honestly, we’re not sixteen” Hermione says, critically. “Can’t you lot just call each other by your first names? Especially you, Harry, honestly—”

“Nah,” Harry and Ron answer together, and then turn to each other, grinning. Hermione rolls her eyes. 

“Lost causes.” She gestures for them to follow her, grabbing Ron’s hand, bringing it up to her mouth to kiss it. “Aren’t we going over, then?” Harry and Ron, in the manner they learned over a decade before, fall dutifully in line. 

“Harry,” Ginny says, as they approach. “Malfoy won’t stop asking us all inane questions and complaining about how you’ve been off moping. I think he’s dying from lack of attention, if you’d like to put us out of our misery.”

“I have not,” Malfoy squawks, but his face has gone patchy and pink. Luna turns to him and puts a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s alright, Draco,” she says. “You really can die from lack of attention. I’ve read plenty about it.”

“That’s not—,” Hermione starts, but then she pauses. “Well, actually. That might be true. If you look at it a certain way.”

“Regardless, I would not die from lack of attention from Potter,” Malfoy sniffs. “I have never needed anyone’s attention less.” 

“Mate,” Ron says, clasping Malfoy’s shoulder, which Harry knows will only rile Malfoy further. “If you’re going to start lying about things, you can’t go straight for the big stuff. It just makes you look ridiculous.”

Malfoy turns to Ron and opens his mouth for what will surely be a litany of everything that Ron has ever been wrong about, but then Hermione starts laughing. He whirls around to her.

“Betrayal, Granger,” he says, which only makes her laugh harder. 

“Oh, please, Draco,” she chokes out. “You know it’s Hermione.”

“I haven’t been moping,” Harry says to Ginny. She waves her hand, like whatever. “I’ve been thinking.” 

“And if he had been moping,” Ron interjects. “He’s allowed. It’s his birthday. He can do whatever he pleases.”

“And when did I say he couldn’t, Ronald,” Ginny says huffily. 

“Even if Harry’s allowed to mope,” says Luna. “I think we could find better things to do.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and he turns away slightly, lets the smells and the early evening warmth and company of the people he loves wash over him, before turning back. “I reckon we can.”

**Author's Note:**

> Been thinking about how young James and Lily were when they died, and how strange it would feel for Harry to grow older than them. Everyone deserved more kindness, so this is me giving them a little. 
> 
> Also the title is from this post: https://389.tumblr.com/post/636817840862806016/when-it-was-possible-to-concentrate-the-world
> 
> Thank you for reading! Obligatory if-you-comment-with-any-feelings-or-thoughts-I-will-love-you-forever !


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